


Meadowlands Vice

by MoochyMunchkin



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Character Development, Gen, M/M, Murder, Original Character(s), Plot Twists, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoochyMunchkin/pseuds/MoochyMunchkin
Summary: Doug 'Dougie' Snarlhoff is a small-time sheriff in the backyard boonies of the Meadowlands, where the hectic life of the big city of Zootopia is just something that most read about in the newspapers. But Dougie is important, in his own way. The Meadowlands, in his own words, is like a big, well-oiled machine, and he keeps it greased, following the traditional path set out for him by his ancestors.





	1. Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'm posting all works so far in this series as chapters, so the chapters aren't actually chapters, they're separate stories about different events.
> 
> This first chapter is dark, like properly dark. I broke my friend with it, so... enjoy. I know this is rather an unsettling piece, but... it all makes a lot of sense, doesn't it, with the world being shaped like this?
> 
> You might want to skip it and try the next/others (if I ever write more than two)

I’m lounging at my desk, hind paws up next to the dirty, sun-yellowed keyboard of my ancient yet mostly dependable computer, when Detective Dietz pokes her head in.

“Hey, Cutlet wants you.”

“What is it?” I ask, barely glancing up from the rag I’m thumbing through.

“Needs you to sign off on a stillbirth, Snarloff. Chief says you handle those personally.”

“Again?” I sigh, dramatically. Then I twist, paws hitting the floor. “Fine. Not like you guys can get ready for the big surprise with me here.”

“Big surprise?” Dietz asks, flicking her ears in confusion. She’s a white tiger, large, her ears are more fluff than I would’ve thought. And as far as I can tell, totally without guile.

I sigh, again. “Nothing.”

“Go on, get outta here Big Bad. Do your job, for once.”

“Bite me,” I tell her. She just cackles, closing my door.

 

***

 

Minutes later I’m in my ride. It’s much like the other cars the Meadowlands Sheriff's department has, but everybody knows this one is mine, paws off. I’ve customized it a little, personal touches here and there. The seats are a bit more comfortable, the radio’s tuned just the way I like it and the suspension’s comfortable on my tailbone. She drives like a barge, sure, but she’s got the speed to catch most joyriders, not that there’s ever much of that sort of behaviour out here in Meadowlands. The biggest change is in the boot: there’s a bunch coolers in  there for when I have to see to a specific facet of being sheriff in cow county that few others can stomach. I’m the part-time assistant coroner. Ben Cutlet, a short fat pig with a penchant for vile smokes, is the brains behind the rest of that title. I’m just the designated driver.

 

As I turn onto Lark Drive, I catch a view of Zootopia in my rear view, and I spit out the window. Where anyone can be anything, they say. Bullshit. I guess that’s true for Zootopia proper, but out here in the stix? No fucking chance. My Pa was a sheriff, his Pa was a sheriff. My son, when he’s old enough, he’ll be sheriff. And he’ll probably be assistant coroner too, just like Pa was. Just like I am.

 

Meadowlands is cow country, grazer central. There’re sheep, goats and pigs, sure, but what there is most of is cows. Being a cow’s a simple life, if you settle for being a milker. All you gotta do is sit down at a milking parlour, yack it up with your buddies and get paid. Hell, it’s pretty much that easy if you’re a bull. Shame not everyone can be a bull, when you think about it. Of course, that means that more often than most would care to hear about, you’ve got to get yourself in a family way if you want to get paid. There’s wonder drugs available that can extend things for a year or more, but sooner or later, you’ll need another kick in the udders to get things flowing again. Leastways you do if you’re poor, and if there’s one thing that’s true about most cows, it’s that they’re poor. Not that most of them complain about their lot in life. Cows are stoic like that. I admire them for it.

Milk’s solid money, but it ain’t good. It’ll get you what you need, but rarely what you want. And so, when the inevitable happens — when heifers become cows who’ve had a lot of calves and put their bodies and their finances through too much of a strain — then somebody like me has to come in and smooth things over.

 

I pull up at the private birthing chateau. Cows are herd creatures, but plenty of them like to give birth in quiet, let’s ‘em cope in quiet too.

“How do, Cutlet,” I say, pulling my hat off my ears. He looks up from the rocking chair and nods.

“Afternoon, Big Bad.”

“Aww, not you too, Cutlet,” I complain. I’m a wolf. _The_ ‘Big Bad Wolf of Cow County’, as it were. Kind of an honorary title, truth be told, not that I like it. “My Pa was Big Bad.”

“And now you are.” Cutlet took his dog-eared stogie between his trotter-like fingers and lit it, laughing through the smoke. “Got a while, Doug. Take a load off.”

“Afternoon, Maude,” I say to the cow on her birthing stool, sitting down in one of the comfy sofa’s further from the action. I’m on a first name basis with most of the heifers, first-calvers and cows in the county. Most of them have babysat me, same as they now babysit my little Georgie. It’s hard to be on anything _but_ a first name basis when they’ve been changing your diapers only a few years back — least that’s what it feels like

“Afternoon, Dougie,” says Maude. She always calls me ‘Dougie’. Most of the cows do. It’s like living with an army of aunts. Even the ones younger than me are matronly, most of _them_ call me ‘Dougie’ too. Maude sounds bright enough, but I can tell she’s strained. Been through a lot already.

“So, a stillbirth?” I ask, after a short, uncomfortable mostly silence, filled only with Maude’s heavy breathing and grunting as she deals with the painful process of giving birth.

“Aye, won’t be long now,” fills in Ben, giving a little piggish _oink_ now and again as he coughs through his tobacco.

“Cord wrapped around the little’un’s neck?” I ask, tilting my head.

“That’s what it is,” says Maude. She grunts, then fingers a tobacco pouch out of her sizeable purse. She rolls it expertly in some papers, licking it and sealing it without even a filter, then strikes a match on one of her horns, puffing away until it lights.

“Y’shouldn’t smoke, Maude, s’bad fer the milk,” says Cutlet reproachfully.

“I ain’t smokin’,” Maude replies, blowing a wreath around his neck. She’s talented with her mouth, I’ll give her that. Cutlet laughs, a deep hacking laugh that turns into a cough. “Yeah, nobody here smokin’, ain’t that right? Want some, Dougie?”

“No thank you, Maude. My Pa caught me smoking once. Made me toke an entire Hayvanna. Didn’t really see the point in it, before or after.”

“Your Pa was a good’un. Queen Bettie liked him. She likes you too.”

I smile, and nod. Queen Bettie, the Dairy Queen. Daughter of Granny Able, the previous Queen. Mother to the Three Sisters, Clarabelle, Clarice and Candice. Managers of Milk, Cheese and Yoghurt, and single source of almost all calcium and dairy products across the land. It was a good thing Bettie liked me. I’d seen her in the hide, a few times. You don’t get to be sheriff without her blessing. _I_ didn’t get to be sheriff without her blessing.

Most folk don’t realize how big business dairy is. Times were, milk was something pups drank, then not a lick after. Nowadays, there’s breakfast cereals and live culture yoghurts, and buttermilk and, hell, butter. There’s even ice-cream, Georgie’s favourite food in the world, and of course the number one product that practically keeps Little Rodentia rolling all by itself, cheese. Hard cheddar, gouda, peccarino… versatile stuff. And it’s all off the backs of the Meadowland herds. It sounds so mundane, I bet, but the amount of money, the size of the industry it takes… I think most folks’d have their head spin. And characters like Maude are the unseen backdrop. That’s where I come in.

“Send her my regards, Maude. It’s a mighty fine job she’s doing,” I said, inclining my head. Maude inclines hers back.

There’s an order to life in the Meadowlands, a hierarchy. A place for everything. There has to be. It may seem simplistic, rustic, quaint even, but the Meadowlands is a well-oiled machine. And I was the grease that kept the wheels going. Queen Bettie knew that, she put me there. I respected her for it. She respected me. I held my hat to my chest, looking up at her picture.

“You’re a good boy, Dougie,” said Maude kindly, straining.

I stand up as more water comes from between her legs. She lows, bellowing out, as first one hoof, then another, extends from within her body.

“May I?” I ask, moving to bend down to grasp the limbs.

“Please do, Dougie, this has taken long enough.” She’s grunting through the words, shaking as she slumps in the birthing stool, eager to have it over and done with.

“Sure thing, Maude.”

I grasp the legs and, in time with her measured breathing, tug on the creature exiting her womb. In a few moments it’s done, and a calf flops onto the plastic mat underneath her. I bite the umbilical cord in two, then tie it off, marvelling at the rawness of pregnancy and birth laid out before me. The placenta and afterbirth will follow soon enough; the hard work’s done and Maude can rest a little. She leans back as much as she can in her birthing chair, huffing with exhaustion. I kneel in front of her as I clean up a little, admiring her determination.

Thousands of years ago, before the Great Dawn — and before the Pax Animus that grew into Zootopia — calves had been born ready to run almost moments after their feet hit the ground. Then there would have been hungry, vicious predators lurking to take the weak and the feeble, fighting off the exhausted mothers, ready to snatch the incapable away. Thankfully, these days, things are a lot more calm and peaceful.

“Want to weigh it?” I ask. I look between the calf’s legs. “Him?” I correct myself.

“Later,” said Cutlet, waving a trotter. He’s too busy enjoying his cigar.

“Gonna call it?” I ask, pointedly.

“So official. We’ve got time, my boy.”

“Yeah, well,” I say coolly, “today’s… eh, one of those days.”

“Come on, Dougie, you can sit a while. But yeah, sure. I’ll call it.” He looks up at the clock on the wall. It says 17:05, or thereabouts.

“You’re off the clock, now,” he says, “Have a drink.”

I snort. “Hell, why not.”

“Time of death, 15.05.” Cutlet writes down a few notes on his ever-present pad. I cross the room, then sign on the dotted line where it calls for an official witness statement. Then I turn to the calf.

Gently, I pick him up. He’s a beauty. Quite heavy, and already quite mobile. I shift him around, ignoring his squirming, until I can put both fingers up his nostrils and clamp my paw over his mouth. He starts to kick, of course, they always do, his small but powerful body jerking as he tries to escape my grip, but I’m an adult wolf and he’s barely been breathing for a minute. In next to no time, his frantic struggles cease and he hangs limply in my paws, having breathed his last.

“Nicely done, boy,” says Cutlet, nodding.

“Want to hold him?” I ask Maude, turning to her. I always ask.

Maude shakes her head, sniffing. “Glad to be rid of the bastard. I’ve had my boys. Had many fine girls, too. I need to get milking again, and I need a new hip, that’s what I need.”

Cutlet nods, lighting his stogie again. “Well, lucky your numbers came up last week in that state lottery, that’s what I say. You’ll be able to afford that and more. Take a little holiday for yourself, visit the spa.”

I sat down again in the comfortable chair, and clear my throat. “About that drink?”

“Heh, forgot you were there, my boy. You know, funny thing.” The doctor-cum-coroner blows a few smoke rings, then shares a sneaky glance with Maude.

“What?” I ask, brushing my hat off.

“Ultrasound picked up two heartbeats, but we never got any pictures o’course. Shame there was only one.”

I blinked. “You mean..?”

“Aye, lad. Next door, in the showers. Happy birthday. Queen Bettie sends her regards. Go on, lad, you’ve earned it.”

 

Cutlet leaned back, chuckling, as a series of solid thumps came from the room next door, followed by a high-pitched squeal that was suddenly cut off.

“He’s such a good boy. Always was. I always tol’ his Pa, good as gold.”

“Y’all doin’ alright there now, Maude?” Cutlet asked, looking over at the cow after a period of contemplative smoking.

“I’ll be right as rain soon enough. Soon as young Dougie there’s finished with his present. I know he don’t like none interfering when he’s playin’, so I’ll leave him be. I can wait. Been waitin’ ‘bout nine months, I can wait a half hour more.”

“Sensible of you, Maude. We’ll get outta yer hooves whilst yer in there, alright? You needin’ a lift home at all?”

“No, no, I’ll call m’boys up, or one o’ma girls. Mighty friendly of ye though.”

“I do what I can.”

 

The door opened as I strode out from the communal showers, wiping my muzzle with a paw. “I’ll be back in a tick, gotta get my tools.”

“Take yer time, lad,” said Cutlet, nodding.

“It’s no trouble,” I reply as I return, several cooler boxes stuffed with greaseproof paper and one battery powered circular saw in paw. “I’ll have it all spotless for you, Maude, no fuss.”

“Yer a good boy, Dougie,” called Maude approvingly, as the door closed again.

 

***

 

Driving home, I found myself whistling a jaunty tune. I’d have to go through my retreat, but I was the sheriff. Even the curious folk wouldn’t think twice of the sheriff driving about. I waved to a few of my customers as I passed. With day turning to evening, and the sun setting, I realized it wasn’t that bad of a day after all. I’d hit up my retreat, unload the car, then deliver the stillbirth to Cutlet’s for further processing. It’d all go down in the books under just another tragic accident, the way these things do. No sense crying over spilled milk, as the saying went. The right paws would be greased, the right mammals would find a token of appreciation for their discretion, and Zootopia would keep on having its apetite for milk, cheese and ice-cream fed. Along with it’s appetite for… let’s say protein.

Thousands of years ago, predator and prey came together in peace and harmony. And that’s what I did, helped to keep the peace.


	2. Welcome To The Herd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doug is sent on a not entirely fruitless wild goose chase looking for a lost calf. Well, everybody is somebody's little boy, right? No matter how old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically the textbook example of "and then it got worse" compared to the last chapter. Or maybe "and then it got smexier". Just be warned, this one'll turn your hair *white*. And also, when I say "explicit", I mean it. As in explicit. This is mostly hard smut with a smattering of plot designed to rustle jimmies in more ways than one.

Doug hunted and pecked at the keyboard, grunting with annoyance at the slowness of his computer as he fought against the operating system and its programs to input his report. Thus it was with both annoyance and relief that he looked up when his door squeaked open.

“Hey Doug,” called Dietz, rapping her big paws on the inside of his grimy office window as she stuck her big cat face into his office.

“Hey there Dietz, can’t you see I’m kinda busy?” Doug answered gruffly, gesturing back down at the screen.

“I can see, Snarlhoff. Yer not answerin’ yer phone again. But hey sure, if you’d like to do more paperwork instead of gettin’ out fer a while, I can tell your ‘informant’ you’re busy.”

“Informant?” Doug sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his muzzle with both paws. “Okay, gimme the whole story, Dietz,” he said, finally, blinking to clear his blurry vision.

“That missing calf case you’ve been workin’ on?”

“Yeah, what of it?” Doug took a swig from a mug of old coffee that had been half stuck to his desk, then made a face. Cold. And bitter. LIke his love life.

“Got a call. A friend of yours might’ve seen‘m.”

“ _Might_? Maker bless my errant co-worker, she knows not what she do.”

“That Tiggy of yours says he might’ve seen yer calf,” stated Dietz, flicking her tail about as she stood there calmly. “Couple’ve days ago.”

“A couple of… Hell’s bells, Dietz.” Doug threw his paws up in disgust. The snowcat chuckled.

“I said you’d not be too pleased, but hey, a lead’s a lead, and you’ve not got too far on it, last I heard.”

“I got plenty far, but…” Doug sighed. “I guess I can get further. You wanna come with? Ride along?”

“Hell no, my shift’s over soon and I’ve got better things to do that track down some shifty… what is your Tiggy, anyway?”

Doug chuckled. “Near as I can tell, kangaroo. With a side of alligator.”

“He related to you?”

“Funny, Dietz.”

“Your pa thought so, Maker rest his soul.” Dietz nodded at the picture of Doug’s father, Carl, where it hung on the wall. A joke was a joke, but you still paid your respects.

Doug took a deep breath. “Okay, how long ago did you get this tip?”

Dietz shrugged her enormous shoulders. “I dunno. An hour? Two? Heard it from Rosalyn. She would’ve come up here’n tol’ ya herself but she’s been takin’ it easy on account of her leg. And Harper’s busy with that moonshine business.”

Doug stood up, shaking his head. “How many people work in this dump?” he grumbled.

“About half?”

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up. Let me get my case files. And some scratch to pay off Tiggy. The Chief’ll sign off on it, Tiggy’s good.”

“I don’t like it when you do that, Snarlhoff.” Dietz scowled.

“Yeah, well, I get paid by the hour. Folk like Tiggy don’t cause more ruckus cos o’me givin’ them a few bucks, and if they save me a few days? Cheaper too. I don’t reward ‘em fer breakin’ the law, Dietz.”

“I know, I know, Doug, still—”

“Missin’ persons case, Diana, time’s worth more’n a few bucks. He’d get more if’n there was a reward. An’ the Maker knows nobody else cares much ‘round here. Calf’s been missing near a month. I know he’s past majority, but that still don’t mean he needs to be forgotten.”

Dietz’ eyes glittered. “I know. Go get ‘em.”

 

Doug collected up his case files, including pictures, some witness statements and a few personal effects of the missing calf, bundling them up into a briefcase, before throwing in a small roll of bills, signing off on the chit that Dietz handed him for it. Then he headed for the garage for his ride.

As far as he could see, the case that had been steadily growing cold looked like a standard runaway, meaning it was high enough priority to chap his ass cheeks every time the chief decided to remind him about it, but not enough to actually get much in the way of resources, other than casing the few spots kids looking to run away to frequented, or kids who made a bad hiking decision ended up. Meadowlands wasn’t exactly… exciting, and that led quite a few otherwise perfectly good kids to just up sticks and move on. Or attempt to, at least.

Most turned up safe and sound, but every so often it ended badly, mostly when they ventured to the mining claims, or up in the mountains. More often than Doug liked, hikers got themselves in a bind halfway up a mountain, or fell over a cliff in the pitch black, or plain broke their neck tripping on a root on some Maker-forsaken moor. Calling in the air rescue was a hassle, every time. Then with Meadowlands being quite spread out and full of peat and clay deposits, it was relatively easy even in Meadowlands proper to get caught up in a sudden squall, run for cover and fall down a sinkhole or into a bog and not get found for a few years. If ever.

Most kids didn’t just hike off into the wilderness, though. Most made a beeline for either the bus or train stations, or Zootopia proper, heading down through the dense forests to the North of Tundratown. Those that made it to Zootopia — most of them, to be honest, hence the lack of hurry once the critical period had passed — usually phoned home a few weeks later, and then he’d be sent out to bring ‘em back.

Some, however, only made it part way, to Spinster.

 

Spinster was a large former mining town that eventually became a way-station between Zootopia and the Meadowlands, picking up its own industry as it transitioned, rather than dying out as so many others had in its place. It was still Meadowlands, but it had a flavour all its own. And Tiggy was part of that flavour.

Doug pulled up in front of the cafe where he usually met his informant. Some informants were a lot more cop-shy, but Tiggy kept his nose relatively clean. Petty theft, drunk and disorderlies, fencing stolen goods, nothing serious. He got everywhere, knew everybody. Everybody knew he’d do anything for a buck or two, and with Meadowlands being what it was, characters like Tiggy came with the territory.

Sure enough, the dog-eared ‘roo was hunched over with his tail squashed against the window, forking eggs, crickets and noodles into his maw. Suzy, a pretty, plump and somewhat world-weary bovine cafe waitress, looked up as Doug pushed the door open. She was much like every cow once they’d had a couple of tykes — a body like somebody poured butter into her clothes and forgot to say when — but she had the even, friendly temperament to match.

“Hey Dougie, beginning to think we wouldn’t see you today. How’ve you been, Hon?”

Doug kissed the waitress on both ears. “Hey Suzy. Been good. How’s yer Ma?”

“Gammy leg, but still goin’ strong.”

“How’re yer two little’uns?”

“Fine, fine. Tyler had a bit of a cough a few months back. Thanks you for your the birthday card. So does Bridget. Anyway, you good for it?” She nodded at the booth, not taking her eyes off the wolf.

“Yeah, yeah. What’s his tab up to?”

“Fifty seven fifty.”

Doug sighed. “Here ya go. Keep a little fer yerself, okay? But let him know he’s on notice if he comes back. He owes me one, will do after, too. And can I have a coffee?”

“Will do, sunshine. And one coffee, coming up. Black, just the way you like it.” Suzy counted about eighty bucks of what Doug gave to her, fed sixty of it into the till, put a couple in the communal wait tip jar, then pocketed the rest. Doug squeezed himself into the booth opposite Tiggy, took his hat off, then took an explorative sip of his cup of coffee once Suzy brought it over.

 

“So, Tiggy, you say you seen my calf?”

The kangaroo ate silently for a few more moments, then swallowed. “Yeah, I seen ‘im.” The russet creature took a swig of water, then went right back to stuffing his face.

“You sayin’ he looked like this?” Doug took a photo out of his briefcase and showed it to Tiggy.

“Uh huh. Kid’s a lot older’n that now though. Filled out nice. Got himself an earring.”

“Oh?” Doug stared at the kangaroo, noting his dog-eared features and ratty pelt. It wasn’t an unfriendly stare, but it wasn’t a flinching one either. He folded the picture up and put it away once Tiggy started to speak.

“Y-yeah, you gotta believe me.”

“Tell me about the earring.”

“Gold, kind of… like a triangle, but doubled up. Hangs off like, uh…” Tiggy flicked his fork in circles around one of his own floppy ears.

Doug nodded. “Like one of those... tags?” The wolf knew cattle-wear was a sensitive subject, but he had to get his facts straight.

“Yeah, but… neater, you know?”

Doug nodded again. The calf wasn’t a lost cause then. “Alright, sounds like our boy. Where’d you see him?”

“You… they promised you’re gonna take care of me, Doug. It’s getting colder, you know. I’m out on the streets again, they said they wouldn’t b-but they did.”

“I paid your tab, Tiggy, you’re square. Ain’t much more I can do.” Doug leaned back, narrowing his eyes. He took another sip of his coffee, then looked out the window, pointedly.

“Please, D—” Doug glared, Tiggy didn’t get to use that name “—Sir. I gotta get me somewhere. It’s winter soon. I can’t make the trip to Sahara Central, they don’t like me there no more.”

Doug sighed. “Look, How about I give you a few more bucks, you try the mission. Go to Martha, say I sent you. Get yourself cleaned up and get a good night’s sleep, okay? I’ll have a word with the reverend. If you _promise_ not to start one of your little operations, I might be able to get you a job. Get you off the streets, would that be nice?”

“J-just ‘til summer, Sir, I promise. Good as gold.”

“Okay, where’d you see the kid?” Doug held out a couple of bills in his paw, flicking them back and forth just out of the roo’s reach.

“I, uh,” Tiggy licked his lips, twitching his sizeable nose. “Lacy’s Parlour.”

“No funny business, now?” Doug kept a hold of the bills, glaring harder as Tiggy tried to pull them from his paws.

“I promise!”

Doug let go of the bills, then drained his cup. “Okay, Tiggy. You keep warm here fer a while, okay? But you head to Martha at the mission before it gets dark, get yerself cleaned up.  You stink, Tiggy, you’re gonna get ill and then where’re you gonna be? Dead in a ditch, and I’ll be the only one at yer funeral. Don’t make me do that, alright?”

“A-alright, Doug. Er, Mister Snarlhoff, Sir.”

 

Doug headed out of the cafe, speaking quietly but sternly into his phone. Eventually his tone softened. “Right, just until he gets on his paws. He promises he’ll behave. Thanks, Reverend, it means a lot to me. Maker bless, pack bless.”

Tiggy probably _would_ head to the mission, he’d be clean for a while, and then he’d get some fantastic money making scheme in his head which would end up with him fencing stolen goods. Again. And then he’d get caught. Again. And then he’d be turfed out. Again… hopefully the ‘roo would last until spring at least, when camping out in his hobo camp in the woods would be safer and more viable than squatting in doorways. Doug’d have to smooth things over with the reverend after of course… a charitable do courtesy of the Sheriff’s department, some paw-greasing. Nothing that would leave a mark, and it’d mean a good face for the boys in the public eye besides.

Tiggy though… the roo was too ugly to fuck and too pathetic to stab, so he was generally a member of the invisible poor, could go anywhere and do anything and nobody gave a damn. Ended up in trouble for most of it, but was never a big enough nuisance to want to arrest proper. Even the prison didn’t want him, it’d mean more paperwork when he inevitably got shanked over stealing somebody’s smokes. He was, however, very useful as a general source of street news. If Tiggy said the kid was at Lacy’s, the kid was at Lacy’s. If the tip came through, and Doug had no doubt it would, though he didn’t like that fact, then the trouble would be worth it.

 

Doug pulled up at a parking lot down the street a ways from Lacy’s Parlour. Lacy’s was an upbeat sleaze-hole nightclub and stripper bar, walking that fine line between red light district and legal escort agency cum part-time motel that pays by the hour. And they did _not_ like seeing cruisers outside. Since this was a courtesy call, as it were, Doug decided to play nice. More flies with honey and all that.

Lacy herself was out at this time of the day. As in out cold upstairs in her suite. Rico, a dapper black weasel in a suit, was handling the bar. Frank was the elephant bouncer that gave the shiny badged wolf a dirty glare, and Armand was the sleek bovine who sashayed down the stairs and intercepted the pair before something bad happened and Frank went home with his trunk in a sling and Doug had to fill out extra paperwork.

“Dougie darling! I knew you’d be coming!” Armand kissed the wolf on both sides of his muzzle, then held the canine close. Doug huffed, breathing in deeply as his reply.

“Frankie, dear, I’ve got this one. He’s all mine. You go… pound something and look beautiful doing it, okay?”

The elephant snorted, trumpeting, then stomped out the doors with nary a look back.

“Sorry, he’s new.”

Doug rolled his eyes. “Mmm, missed you, Armand. You smell nice. New shampoo?”

“Oh you know it! You wanna come upstairs and tell me what’s in it?”

Doug’s tongue lolled out as he panted slightly. Then he sucked it in, and waggled a hairy digit at the bovine. “Armie, you’ve been bad. I’ve been looking for this kid for a month!”

“Kid?” asked Armand, innocently.

“You know exactly who I mean. Kid from the boonies, went missing a month ago. Last seen right fucking here?” Doug glared at the bovine, who wilted, then shrugged, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

“Oh, _that_ kid.”

“Don’t you ‘that kid’ me, Armie!”

“Well now you’ve found him! Rico, a bottle!” Armand spun, clapping his hooves at the bartender.

“Sure thing. He goin’ up with you?” squeaked the mustelid, whiskers twitching.

“You bet your ass he’s coming with me. In more ways than one.”

Doug rolled his eyes. “Must you?”

“Darling, how long have you known me?”

“Too long,” the wolf replied.

“And you still have to ask. Silly boy.”

 

Doug followed Armand up the stairs, eyes fixated on his neatly-coiffed tail. It wasn’t that the wolf would call himself gay, or even bisexual, it was just that with his kid still young enough, the missus wasn’t exactly forthcoming with after hours recreation when the little one might hear. A wolf like him had needs. And besides, it wasn’t gay if it was with prey.

 

Doug leaned forwards discretely between padded paw-steps. Armand slowed down just enough to let Doug’s nose get within twitching distance of his tight pants. He smelled enticing. Armand was an exceptionally well-groomed specimen, and there was a reason for that: cows like Suzy were more or less made for one thing; from when they passed age of majority until their wombs shrivelled and dried up, they would get pregnant, give birth then give milk, more or less day in and day out. That kind of work takes its toll on anybody and bovines were no exception.

The bulls, then, had their one task too — to make sure the milk had a reason to flow. Plenty of cows though didn’t really want to have an addition to their circle if one wasn’t needed, and since lactating and birth control were incredibly hard to manage without either of the two suffering in efficacy, they didn’t tend to let the breeders get close unless they really _wanted_ a good dicking.

As such, there was a large market for, to put it nicely, ‘physical comfort specialists’. But with cows, both male and female, it wasn’t quite that simple. Bulls, despite their masculine nature, and maybe because of it, needed comfort in a way that another bull just wasn’t really able to provide. Their hefty bulks, their muscular frames, also weren’t really what most bulls were looking for. Plenty did, of course, and plenty more sought out the large and ample with-calf members of their species — a great way for a moderate milker to make a few extra bucks — but most others did not. And that’s where steers like Armand came in. Only steers and queers come from Meadowlands, went the old adage. Armand was both.

Armand was a sculpted adonis. His fur was soft as silk, his lashes long, his hooves dainty and well-oiled, supple to the touch. He had curves where bulls had bulges. And he was a damn sight tighter lay than a saggy cow who’s dropped one too many in her lifetime, as the more gauche types would exclaim.

He could also do this trick with his tongue where he… Doug shook himself.

“Armand, you could’ve just _told_ me. You’ve got my number.”

“And have you get sloppy? Without me?” Armand pulled Doug into a private room, popped the cork off the bottle with one flex of a hoof, poured out a glass and then unzipped the hound’s pants before pulling them down. “Ohhh, you _have_ missed me.”

“Armand—”

“So very much. So very, very—”

“Armand!” Doug growled, making the steer quiver with delight. “I need to see him.”

“You will. But first, relax a little.”

 

The steer pushed Doug onto his back on a bed, it was shaped like a heart, before pulling off his own shirt. He undid the buttons one by one, wriggling his hips, then threw it away. Next came his pants, which he ripped off in one smooth motion, revealing a jock strap.

“Really?” Doug snorted at it, smirking, his ears twitching with silent laughter.

“Oh you know you want this,” Armand said, holding to the front to his body with one hoof whilst he undid the rear straps with the other. Eventually he peeled it off to reveal his immaculate sheath behind it. The strap was small enough that a heifer could’ve worn it and not been put out. Armand was not large, steers in general ran to the dainty in that area. That wasn’t what he was for. The steer threw the jockstrap at Doug, who caught it in his teeth. The wolf took a deep breath, taking in the steer’s scent.

A bull is musky, replete with a powerful masculine odour that assaults the senses like a sack full of bricks. A steer is without such brutal olfactory assaults, they smell a lot more… feminine. Or at least Armand did. It was probably sprayed on hormones, not that Doug cared.

Doug ran his paws over the steer as he pulled him closer. His nose touched the bovine at his nipples, his forearms and at his crotch as the wolf climbed on top, drinking in Armand’s scent at every stage. Doug licked and nipped, kissing and biting as he moved along the taut body, raking his claws gently down the steer’s sides, rubbing himself against the other’s body, painting the steer with his own musk and dribbling precum. Armand’s own cock was out, meaty and distinct, but still small and dainty by bull standards. Doug grabbed it, pulsating it inside his fist of a forepaw, pulling it back and forth as he ground his own crotch against the steer. Armand made a game of it, his own hooves covered in slick lubricant, which he used to liberally paint Doug’s engorged cock with, working it until the wolf thought he might come then and there, spraying his load all over both Armand, his muzzle and the bedsheets.

“It’s not gay if it’s prey, that’s what my Pa always said,” whispered Doug.

“I’m your sweet little heifer if you want me, Dougie,” whispered Armand back, rolling over and presenting his backside to the alpha male, wriggling now that Doug’s cock was dripping in more ways than one. “You can have me as I am, unwrapped, like you like it.”

“Oh can I, now?”

“Nobody else gets me in the flesh, you know that.”

Doug growled low as he leaped up onto the steer’s back, his engorged cock already starting to swell. Armand lifted his tail, exposing his tight little pucker to the canine. Doug was too eager, however, and dismounted, whining. He shoved his nose under Armand’s tail, licking and biting at the tailhole, pushing his tongue at the wrinkled hole until it breached, slathering inside.

The steer was clean, Armand was always meticulous about his body both inside and out, especially when he had clients, and the tiny remnant of where his once proud balls had hung tingled as the wolf licked at his sheath and cock before once more leaping upon the steer’s back.

Armand lowed softly, mooing under his breath as the wolf jerked his hips back and forth in a frenzy until, finally, hitting home. Both gasped as Doug speared the heifer-steer, Armand’s turning into a long, low sensual lowing that drove Doug to frenzied heights. He sank into Armand’s velvet folds like a boat coasting gently to harbour as the two joined as one. Doug pushed, thrusting deeper and deeper into the steer, Armand huffing and groaning, pushing back against the alpha male as Doug’s thick wolfcock parted his bovine love tunnel. Breathing in time with each other’s motions and heartbeats, they came closer and closer together, Armand’s warm, hot steercunt swallowing more and more of Doug’s wolfhood until, finally, they could come no closer and the wolf felt his generous knot sinking into the steer’s backside. Finally, they tied, Doug unloading spurt after spurt of warm sticky cum into his lover’s bowels as the steer moaned long and low, clenching his split ring around the intruder.

Shuddering, Doug fell sideways, breathing heavily.

Armand sighed, spooning back against the wolf, kissing the paw that was held around his midriff. Slowly, the steer turned, tied still to the wolf by the deliciously thick flesh plug. He gently, ever so slowly, turned, until he could see the wolf, nose ring to nose.

“I’ve missed you, Dougie.”

“I know, Armand. I’ve been…”

“Stressed. Pent up.” The steer stroked his lover’s muzzle tenderly. “You should come more often. You need it.” Armand kissed Doug on the nose and jowels, licking the wolf’s teeth experimentally, lowing softly. “Your little heifer-steer needs it too.”

“Well my little heifer will have to behave better or I’ll brand you.”

“You already have, you filthy mongrel. I’ll be smelling like my alpha for weeks.”

“You deserve it.”

“I know. The bulls won’t care, and I love it. Shows me where I belong.” Armand shivered with delight. “Speaking of… now you’re a little calmer, I think you’re in the right frame of mind to meet him.”

“Hmm? Him who?” Doug put the glass down from where he’d awkwardly taken a long sip, still tied deep in the steer’s rump.

“Michael. He’s been waiting for this for a long time.”

“Hmm?” Doug asked, sleepily.

“For his first customer.” Armand lifted his forehooves and clapped them together. After a few seconds, the other door in the private room opened, and a young, deep brown cow entered.

“Ah, Armand… dammit all to hell you son of a bitch.” Doug fell back against the pillows, glaring up at the ceiling as he took in every small detail.

“He’s ready, Dougie. He’s passed the age of majority, and… and look at him!”

Doug did look, lifting his body as much as he could to take in the sight. Michael, so recently in his pictures hoping to be the next great football star, was now looking decidedly leaner and lighter. Especially around the crotch. He was naked, of course, showing off his perfect, crisp brown and white Konari-tribe markings, his near blemish-less hide, except for his colouration. Rare, soulful blue eyes looked out from under the sweetest pair of horns you ever did see that topped off the newly shorn steer’s shapely head and muzzle. Doug could feel his wolfcock growing hard again, aching to claim another conquest.

“Maker’s Breath, he’s beautiful,” said Doug.

“Isn’t he? You know… how much do you know about the world outside Zootopia?”

“N-not much, Armie. Don’t have the head-space for it.”

“Michael’s from the Konari tribe. They have their own traditions there, one of them is the calf dancers. You know what they say there: cows are for mating, calves are for pleasure. Especially steers like him. Come closer, Michael. Dougie here won’t bite. Unless you ask him nicely. And if he does, I’ll be having words because you are _so_ beautiful I am without words. Armand is jealous. Come, come!”

Hesitantly, the young steer stepped closer. He still had the walk of a bull, but it was fading. The boy was losing that harsh edge — a harshness he’d never really had, being in the flush of youth as he was — and was gaining the soft curves and sweeter, earthier smell of a steer. Doug reached out, running his paws down the boy’s side, pulling him onto the bed, where Armand made what room he could.

Doug’s paws roved down to the boy’s sheath, where two tiny little scars were already fading, the only proof of what had so recently been taken from the steer.

“He’s a looker, alright. Are you _sure_ you’ve… mmmph!”

Doug was forced to stop talking as the younger steer impulsively kissed the older canine on the muzzle. When the steer broke, he was gasping for breath.

“You’re… m-my first…” Michael said, whispering.

“Fenrir’s teeth, could he be any more precious. Surely, boy, you’ve…”

“Y-yes, i-in training… b-but I’ve never…”

“Gone solo? Armand, shift your butt.”

“I see how it is. Cast off like so much dirty laundry…” Armand sniffed, but a smirk played across his muzzle. He groaned as Doug’s cock slipped from his rectum in a spurt of sticky, hot seed. He groaned lustfully.

“Hush, you. I love my little heifer-steer, so hush up, but the boy deserves a present. Come on, lad, come closer. It’s time you cleaned your alpha in preparation for your initiation.”

“Cleaned?”

Doug gestured to his crotch, where his cock glistened and dripped. Hesitantly, but with growing enamour, the new steer began to lap at the fleshy protrusion, dipping his head, also lowing gently under his breath as he saw to the wolf that, he realized with some trepidation, was going to become his alpha.

 

Wolves were a breed apart from cows. He’d seem them plenty, before, but now, shorn of his masculinity, an older, full male was… intimidating. And intriguing. He snuffled and sniffed at the wolf as he lapped at the musky genitals, drinking in the scent of a true male. His nose had changed along with his body and moods, and now that sexual scent was heady and powerful, where before it could even have gone entirely unnoticed.

“A-are you r-ready, sir?”

“What do you think, Mikey?”

“I-I th-think so, sir.”

“Then turn around and climb on up here, careful now, that’s right.”

 

Doug watched, entranced, as the lithe creature slowly and carefully, shaking slightly with barely constrained fear and more than a little arousal, face away from him before clambering up onto the gigantic, heart-shaped bed, straddling the older male. Doug put his paws up, cupping the steer’s backside as he maneuvered the calf into position — one called, amusingly enough, the reverse cowgirl — and pulled Michael down for a smooth landing on his still-dripping cock.

Michael winced as the wolf penetrated him, breathing in through his teeth, until he let out his breath and began to relax as the entire length shifted inside him and his body moved to accommodate it.

Slowly, but with growing vigor, Doug began to move Michael up and down in a mechanical but methodical manner, pumping his rod deeper and deeper into the steercunt with every heave. Michael bit his lip, whining and mooing as he felt a distant echo of the heat grow inside him one more time until, finally, the youngster came in short, clear, sticky bursts, his mouth open in shock.

“Mmm, that’s my Dougie. Knows just how to treat a lady.”

“Don’t move, kid, I’m tied,” growled Doug, as the steer wriggled. “Hey, you can get comfortable, but don’t try to go nowhere til I say, you’ll rip yerself open like an elephant’d ridden ya if you do.”

“Uh huh, yes sir.”

“S’Doug with you, kid. At least in this bed, it is. Think you can turn yourself?”

“I… I think…”

With a little grunting, and a few yelps of pain, the young steer came muzzle to muzzle with the wolf, who grinned, tongue hanging out.

“Kid, I’ve been looking for you for a month. Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

“Umm…”

“None.” Doug gave out a barking laugh. “Me though. Heh. I’d say ‘fuck me’ but you already did. Listen, kid, stick with Armand, okay? He’ll treat you right. Don’t let Lacy ride roughshod all over you, she’s a bitch, in a bad way, with milksops.”

Doug leaned back, closing his eyes.

“D-Doug?” Michael eventually asked.

“Shh, kid, I’m old. Twice in one day is quite stressful for an old dog like me. And I’m trying to put off thinking about all the paperwork you’ve caused. Just promise me you’ll go see yer ma and pa soon, okay?”

“Y-yessir,” stammered the steer.

“Good. Now lay down here,” Doug patted the bed, pulling Armand closer on the other side. “I’m a paying client and I need my aftercare.” Doug fished for his jacket, then pulled out the remainder of the roll of cash he’d signed out for his informant, and handed it over to the confused steer.

“What? Armand didn’t tell you?” the wolf said, snorting through his teeth.

“What? I thought…?”

“Kid, _never_  turn tricks for free. Your clients won’t respect you if you do. That’s what Frank’s for, if they decide they don’t wanna pay. Have a late but happy birthday, kid.”


End file.
